


Absence

by CorvidFeathers



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-21
Updated: 2013-12-21
Packaged: 2018-01-05 08:56:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1092021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CorvidFeathers/pseuds/CorvidFeathers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Courfeyrac is injured, Marius must come to his aid.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Absence

**Author's Note:**

  * For [chainsaw_poet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chainsaw_poet/gifts).



> I'm so so sorry for the slight delay DX  
> I was so excited I got chainsaw_poet for my fic assignment! She's one of my absolute favorite fic writers.

At first the absence wasn’t palpable.

                As the hours ticked on, it began to creep through the dimly lit rooms and into Marius’s consciousness, trickling through the excited tangle of his emotions that he was scribbling furiously onto the page.  It seemed there would be no end to the words expressing his feelings, until he was brought to a sudden standstill.  Realization dawned upon him, and he looked up towards the door. 

                The rooms Marius shared with Courfeyrac were in a constant state of disarray, thrown askew by their occupants, who were both quite heedless of tidiness.  Courfeyrac always moved about in a flurry of movement and activity, and his stylish waistcoats, cravats, books, pens, and various ephemera were scattered around the rooms with no apparent correlation to sense.  The only things he was careful with were the papers that he would come home bearing, muttering to Combeferre or Enjolras as he locked them into his desk.  Marius’s manner of disorder was different- his few possessions were confined to the corner where his mattress lay, but he in his nightly comings and going he was blissfully heedless of the layout of Courfeyrac’s possessions, and often broke pens and besmirched waistcoats in his trek across the rooms.

                Marius squinted through this clutter now.  His candle had burned low, but light was beginning to show outside, the dawn peeking over the Paris skyline and casting a dusky glow into the room.  He sat at Courfeyrac’s writing desk and wondered where his roommate was.

                Now that he stopped to ponder it, he realized he had not seen Courfeyrac in several days.  Often his only words to his friend were mumbled responses in passing as he went out for the night and Courfeyrac came in.  Ever since the girl had come into his life, he hadn’t had much thought for anything else. 

                Courfeyrac was often gone at odd hours on whatever business the Amis d’ABC sent him on, but Marius didn’t remember such business lasting for more than a day or two, nor did he remember Courfeyrac mentioning it.

                Marius stood from the desk and went to the window, looking down at the street.  A single dim gaslight lit the cobblestones, casting long shadows against the buildings and the figures that moved about in the gloom of dawn.  Pressing his hand against the cold windowpane, Marius suddenly realized that it was December.  Could Courfeyrac have already gone home to his family?  If he had, he had made no mention of it to Marius, or at least none he remembered. 

                Marius frowned, leaning against the window and utterly bewildered.  The more he pondered his friend’s absence, the more he thought it strange.  What could he do about it?  He’d gone out with Courfeyrac and his friends once or twice, mostly at Courfeyrac’s request, but the names of the establishments they had visited had long flown his mind.  The only one he remembered was that dreaded café, the Musain.  The thought of returning there brought a blush to his cheeks.

                He took a breath and turned back to Courfeyrac’s desk.  His work was still laid out, pen dripping ink onto his latest scribbled-out line.  He sat back down and took up his pen again, but he for once he couldn’t lose himself in Ursule’s image.  The thought of Courfeyrac kept interfering, as intrusive as its subject. 

                He had only vague notions of the work that Courfeyrac did with the Les Amis d’ABC, but once he had been roused in the middle of the day by the door slamming open and Courfeyrac and Comberre’s raised voices in the main room.  He’d looked out, and saw the two leaning over the couch, on which Enjolras lay.  His golden hair had been matted with blood, and his face pallid, so unlike the confident man that Marius had become acquainted with Marius had been tempted to believe it a dream.  But the rusty red stain on the couch confirmed his memory.

                Now in his mind’s eyes it was Courfeyrac lying there, his jovial face pale and unmoving, his dark curls matted with blood.  The more he tried to replace the image with his lovely Ursule, the more it crept in, until it was Ursule with blood running down her temples and empty, lifeless eyes.  Ink dripped from his pen, leaving dark stains on the pages, and the candle guttered as Marius stared at the wall.

Before he was consciously aware of it, he had risen from his desk and gone to get his coat.

                The enormity of what he was doing struck him as he paused at the threshold of their rooms.  It would be easy for Courfeyrac.  More than once Cpurfeyrac had tracked him down to some remote corner, and dragged him back to a café for dinner or just home to their rooms.  He was never too busy to notice Marius’s absence.  Marius bit his lip, adjusting his patched green coat- the one Courfeyrac had given him- and reached for the doorknob. 

                Just as his fingers brushed the metal the door was yanked open, and Courfeyrac tumbled inside.  Marius let out a yelp and jumped backwards, leaving Courfeyrac to impact with the floor with a small thud.  All of his gruesome imaginings returned to Marius’s mind in a flash, and his breath caught in his throat as he threw himself down next to Courfeyrac.

                He took hold of Courfeyrac’s arm and fumbled for his pulse at the wrist, like he vaguely remembered his childhood physician doing to him.  Courfeyrac’s coat was slick with mud, and Marius’s fingers were shaking too badly to be of any use.  He abandoned his efforts to roll up Courfeyrac’s coatsleeve and turned to the buttons of his coat.  At last he managed to pry to coat off Courfeyrac and reach his wrist, finding Courfeyrac’s pulse.  He didn’t know enough to judge its condition, but Courfeyrac was already waking.

                He lifted his head, looking up at Marius blearily.  “Marius…?”

                Marius’s gaze was frozen on the rusty crimson slash in Courfeyrac’s waistcoat, exposing by the removal of his coat.  Beneath the slitted fabric, he could see the wet glisten of blood.  It took another moment of frantic fumbling to undo the buttons of Courfyrac’s waistcoat.

                “My, Pontmercy,” Courfeyrac said weakly.  “I had no idea that you’d had intentions of following through on your resolution…”  His gaze was glassy and unfocused, and his face pallid.

                “Resolution?” Marius asked dumbly, hardly hearing Courfeyrac’s words.  His mind teetered, panic clawing at his insides.  “What happened?”

                “Your resolution… your resolution to sleep with me,” Courfeyrac said, his lips twisting up into an attempt at a smile.  Marius stared at him for a moment, then shook his head, unable to quite comprehend his humor at a moment like this.

                “What happened?” he said again, but Courfeyrac did not answer.  His gaze had slipped from Marius’s, fixing on the wall behind him. 

                “Courfeyrac!” Marius said, shaking his friend’s shoulder.  Courfeyrac let out a small groan of protest.  When Marius reached under his waistcoat’s to peel back the shirt from his wound, his fingers came back slick with blood. 

                Marius was transfixed for an instant, staring at his scarlet-stained digits, his brain churning out poetic phrases regarding the sight even as he tried to force himself into action.  The shadows cast across the dim room suddenly seemed to take a menacing tone, reaching out towards the two, where they crouched in the pool of light by the door. 

                The open door finally snapped Marius out of his reverie.  He stood and pulled Courfeyrac to his feet, trying to coax him across the room to the coach.  Finally he got him laid down on the coach, pushing all images of that nightmarish scene from his mind, and scrambled for something to stop the bleeding. 

                Marius managed to find a clean cravat among his possessions, and hurried back to Courfeyrac’s side, using the square of cloth to haphazardly daub at the wound.  It was an ugly gash across Courfeyrac’s side, tinged reddish around the edges and still weeping blood.  Below the flush on his cheeks, Courfeyrac was pale and trembling, and his skin was cold to the touch. Marius’s mind flew back to the half-remembered conversations he had overheard in the Musain, Joly and Combeferre whispering of bullet wounds and tourniquets in references to things he still didn’t understand.  He knew little of their politics, and less of medicine.

                He knew enough to realize that seeking out any doctor might bring difficultly, and beyond that, he had no money.  Courfeyrac’s only hope lay in his friends.  Marius wracked his brain, trying to dredge up the addresses and cafes he had tried to forget, from his brief stint as one of their number.  The more he reached for the memories, the more they receded from is gasp, until he was in tears.

                Finally a name came back to him- the Musain.  Of course.  He pressed the folded cravat to Courfeyrac’s wound, and then fastened his waistcoat back over it to hold it in place. 

                He checked Courfeyrac’s pulse once more before he set out towards the café.

                Outside, the sun had clawed its way out from behind the horizon and was traveling further into the sky, lighting up the grimy Parisian streets in wan gray light.  The ground was still coated in a thin layer of white and grimy gray from the previous day’s snowfall, but the sky was clear.  Marius hurried through the slushy streets, navigating past the miserable wretches who huddled along walls and in vestibules, clinging to the vestiges of warmth that escaped the buildings.  His thoughts went to Eponine for the briefest moment, but he quickly pushed them away.

                The walk from his rooms to the Musain was cold and miserable, prolonged by his own second-guessing his recollections of where the café was.  When he finally reached the café the sun was high in the sky.  He stepped into the warmth of the café and hovered at the door, scanning the room uncertainly.

                At this hour the café only had a few customers scattering throughout the room, lingering over their breakfast or reading the papers.  Louison bustled amongst them, keeping the café in order.  Amongst the strangers, a familiar face finally caught his eye. 

                The name caught in Marius’s throat as he tried to call it out.  He stepped closer, and hesitantly touched the main on the shoulder.

                Combeferre started and looked up, blinking at Marius for a moment before his brow furrowed in recognition.  “Pontmercy?” he said, setting aside his book and regarding Marius with puzzlement.  “What can I do for you?” 

                His words were affable, but Marius almost shied at the impatient edge to his voice.

                “Courfeyrac is injured,” Marius said.

                Instantly, Combeferre’s demeanor was transformed.  He was at his feet in seconds, shoving his book into the bag he carried.  “Injured?” he said, already walking towards the door of the café.  “How?”

                Marius hurried after him.  “I… I don’t know, he had been gone for a time and then he just… showed up all, he’s… he’s…”

                Combeferre reached out his hand and touched Marius’s shoulder gently and Marius flinched instinctively.  The hand was withdrawn as much.  “How long had he been gone?”

                “I don’t know,” Marius said.  “I don’t know, I just, I…”

                Combeferre took his by the shoulder and stopped.  “Marius.  Can you do something for me?”

                “I…”

                “Go to Enjolras’ apartment.  Do you know where he lives?”  When Marius shook his head, Combeferre gave him the address and quick instructions.  “Go there and tell him Courfeyrac was injured, and that he should gather the others.”  Combeferre’s words carried a strange kind of weight, but Marius was too distressed to puzzle through it, or even to worry over meeting Enjolras again.  He merely nodded and set off in the direction Combeferre provided him.

                Enjolras’s apartment was only a few streets away from the Musain, on the upper floor of a middle class establishment sandwiched in between two cafes.  Marius was trying to bargain his way past the portress when Enjolras came down the stairs.  His clothes and hair were in a disarray, and there were dark shadows under his eyes, but his expression was cheerful as he greeted Marius.

                “Pontmercy!  What are you doing here?”

                “Cou-Courfeyrac’s hurt, Combeferre sent me here to tell you,” Marius said in a rush.  The smile slid off Enjolras’s face, shock shining in his eyes for a moment before it was replaced with a mask of composure. 

                “We’d best speak upstairs,” he said, nodding to the portress as he took Marius’s arm and led him up towards his rooms.

                Enjolras’ rooms were the last thing Marius would have expected from the man- they resembled Courfeyrac’s far more than his faint recollections of Combeferre’s.  But he had no time to ponder these musings as Enjolras interrogated him tersely as to the nature of Courfeyrac’s injuries.  Marius had little answers to give him, but when Enjolras suggested they go back to Courfeyrac’s rooms together, he remembered to impart Combeferre’s message about their other friends.

                Enjolras’s mouth drew into a hard line.  “Combeferre is right,” he said after a moment.  “You return to your rooms.  Tell Combeferre I will warn the others.”

                Marius nodded, and hurried back to his rooms.

***

                For a while Courfeyrac drifted on the cusp of wakefulness.    He could hear distant voices, echoing down to him and muffled as through a thick layer of fog.  His head was filled with strange dreams, colorful apparitions dancing across events that did or didn’t happen.  It was not an altogether unpleasant situation, and he was quite content to watch them, blessedly removed from any sensation or emotion connected to the events that played across through his mind’s eyes.

                It was a sort snuffled that finally woke him.

                As soon as he opened his eyes he knew exactly where he was.  The water-stained ceiling of his room hung above him, the constellations of mold spatters staring back down at him.  He couldn’t recall precisely how he had gotten home, or where he had been before that, but instead of the other customary symptoms of a hangover, there was a throbbing pain in his side. 

                There was also a weight against him.  He turned his head to see Marius kneeling next o him, his head resting on the sheets.  He was snoring softly.

                “Good morning,” another familiar voice said.  Courfeyrac looked up to meet Combeferre’s steady gaze.

                “Good… morning?” Courfeyrac replied, glancing out the window.  Sure enough, the wan winter sun was rising over the horizon.

                Combeferre’s tone was serious when he asked “What happened?”

                Recollection came back to Courfeyrac slowly, but Combeferre knew him and their cause well, and could draw conclusions from the bits Courfeyrac told him.  Together, they pieced together the events of the night that had led up to Courfeyrac making his way back to his apartment bloody and broken.   Courfeyrac quickly dispelled any fears Combeferre might have held of the incident shaking his revolutionary zeal.  Getting stuck with a knife or two was nothing in comparison with what they would face in the years to come, Courfeyrac knew.

                As the lapsed into silence again, Courfeyrac remembered Marius.  He was stilled snoring away, plainly exhausted by the ordeal.  Courfeyrac could hardly believe that his reclusive friend had been drawn so far from his pattern, even by such drastic circumstances.

                “He acquitted himself well,” Combeferre said softly, guessing Courfeyrac’s thoughts.  “He plainly cares a lot for you.”

                Courfeyrac laughed softly.  “It’s god to know that.  I never know what is going on in his head,” he said, reaching down to run a hand through Marius’s silky curls.  “Perhaps we will make a republican of him yet.”

                


End file.
